


I'm Wired And I'm Tired And I'm Grinning Like A Fool.

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk messy boys-will-be-boys, with a side of banter and panty-kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Wired And I'm Tired And I'm Grinning Like A Fool.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for looking it over for me, [](http://munibunny.livejournal.com/profile)[**munibunny**](http://munibunny.livejournal.com/) and [](http://tabularassa.livejournal.com/profile)[**tabularassa**](http://tabularassa.livejournal.com/)!

It's because he's let himself get too comfortable, Jensen thinks later, hangover pounding at his temples, his mouth dry and tight and bitter. The muscle in his neck throbs, head pillowed awkwardly on Jared's bicep. Jared's furnace-hot legs are twined over his, heavy and hard and pinning him down.

It's because he's let himself forget Jared's, well, _Jared_. Loose tongue and loose hands, battery of bottles between them getting bigger by the minute, Harley grumping from the floor, Sadie snaking her head over the coffee table to get at the remnants of their pizza. Shit, Jensen knew they shouldn't have ordered one with onions, because she's going to have the foulest breath come morning, which normally he wouldn't give a good goddamn about, except she's taken to sneak-attacking him with her tongue to wake him up lately, even when he's sure he's shut his bedroom door.

It's because he gets like this when he's drunk. Not quite the ready to collapse, can't touch his nose or walk a straight line to the kitchen kind of hammered, but that kind of thick, relaxed buzz that makes minutes tick by smooth and easy, every word between them feeling strangely profound, even if all Jared's talking about is going down to see his folks over last weekend, pausing mid-word to slap sweaty, heavy fingers over Jensen's shoulder, "Man, you ready for another?"

He should say no and he knows it. It's not like he's got a problem or something; god knows he pays for it in the mornings, works it all off during the week, the carbs and the calories, lifts his weights and guzzles down the vegetable smoothies, and fuck, it's not like he does this every night or every weekend, it's just when Jared gives him that look, the one he's got going on right this minute, wide open eyes and wider mouth, lashes swooping up and down like a cartoon kid's, and how in the hell is anyone supposed to say no to that?

"Yeah, beer bitch," he calls at Jared's retreating back, shoulder blades rolling under his threadbare tee shirt, faded gray and paler half-circles sweat-bleached into the underarms, the kind of thing that maybe should be a lot more disgusting than it is, but it's _Jared_. Not like he doesn't know what Jared's skin smells like, tastes like, it's not like he hasn't wanted to put his hands and lips and his tongue to every part of Jared's body, crown to toes, not like he hasn't seen worse, has even held Jared's hair back for him, crouched between sink and toilet in the cramped downstairs bathroom, like a goddamn sixteen-year-old girl at her first college party, and fuck, if that hasn't put him off –

"Motherfucker!" he yells, icy-cold bottle pressing into the back of his neck, and Jared is laughing, the sneaky asshole, sharp white teeth gleaming in the pale blue flicker of the TV, happy toothpaste ad grin, not that Jared does ads, but Jensen thinks there's no way that smile wouldn't convince you that every penny dropped at the dentist's is a penny well spent. "Motherfucker," he repeats, more out of habit than out of anger, because it's _Jared_, and Jensen probably deserves it, did call him beer bitch after all, and besides, it's the last bottle of Dos Equis and Jared gives it up, settles for the Bud, twists off the cap and takes a huge rolling gulp like he's been dying of thirst.

"Jared, dude, how do you even drink that shit? Pretty sure splurging on some India Pale won't put you out of house and home."

"Let me tell you a little something about _this shit_, my friend," Jared says sagely, holding out the bottle. "What does it say right there on the label? Yeah, that's right, read it out loud: _king of beers_. One more time, say it with me, _king of beers_," and that's as long as he can hold his super-serious face for, cracks up laughing again, flashing Jensen the dark pink of his tongue, dimples playing on his cheeks, and damn it, that's it right there, what the hell was he saying about not having a problem?

"Come on, unpause the game or forever give up your clicker rights," Jared says, but he doesn't really mean it; it's part of the routine just like the game itself, Tivoed on Monday and watched whenever they find the time, bits and pieces, clink of bottles and the kind of conversation they only have at ass o'clock after midnight, all stops out and not a single uncomfortable silence in sight. Those are for daytime, for morning, for sun-up and Jared's clock radio blaring alarm from the nightstand, for when Jensen untangles himself from Jared's tight octopus grip, Jared's sheets and blankets, hot and musty, stained with spit and sweat and come, more drying on his belly as he pads downstairs, soft on the steps not to wake Jared up.

Jared's carrying on about some girl he saw down in Texas, some girl he maybe went to high school with, or lived next door to, or both, except now she's married to their old chemistry teacher, "Mr. Theory, so now she's Mrs. Theory, man. That's just wrong," and something shifts uncomfortably in Jensen's chest, clicks and chugs and won't roll over, stalling out.

"Mr. _Theory_? Come on, Jared. Your science teacher's name was Mr. _Theory_? How gullible do you think I am?"

Jared sputters, cheeks puffing out like an angry chipmunk's. "It's not 'theory', it's 'Thiery'. T-h-i-e-r-y, as in the kind of asshole who introduces himself to freshmen with a _hi, I'm Mr. Thiery, and all the horror stories you've heard about me are true_, and, well, they are now, ain't they? He's like – twice her age." Jared's face is red, sweaty, overgrown hair dragging down into his eyes, beer bottle clutched in his hands, poised inches away from his mouth.

"You gonna drink that beer or fondle it? Look like you're about to deep-throat the thing," Jensen says, rough, watches Jared mouth over the bottle-rim, condensation painting his lips dark slick wet. It's fourth down on screen again, and then Folk getting his field goal in slo-mo. Jared pulls the bottle from his lips, tongue-chases a fat droplet of Bud down his chin.

"My first BJ, and now she's Mrs. Thiery," he sighs, loud and long, slams the bottle onto the coffee table, and _dude_, Jensen wants to say, you're 27 years old, this shit was a half a lifetime ago, and who the hell hangs on to awkward high school sex like it's still a conquest, but Jared just keeps talking, hands flapping through the air for emphasis.

"She had _braces_," he says, "mouth looked fuckin' lethal," and, aw, hell, Jensen remembers this, sympathy cringe twitching his shoulders. Erica Allard, best and worst head of his life, hands down. Best in that way it's all the best when you're fifteen, nothing to compare and contrast to the greasy glide of her cherry chap stick, hot fingers pulling at zippers and waistbands fumbling for skin. Worst in that way he never stopped being terrified her mama would get home from work any minute, the way he caught the metal glint on her teeth every time Erica looked up. Eventually she just ended up jacking him off and he helped her wipe down the loveseat with crumpled tissues, eyes flicking desperately between the faux leather and the grandfather clock in her living room corner.

"Unnecessary roughness," Anderson pronounces from the TV, "fifteen yard penalty, automatic first down," and wait, Jensen thinks, scrambling for the remote, when the hell did the Redskins manage to score?

The remote isn't on the coffee table. It's not on the arm of the couch, or on the floor by his feet, or poking out from between the cushions where he could've sworn it was last, and Jared's still nattering on, arms waving from side to side like he's gauging fish sizes or dick sizes or both, Jensen has no idea.

He sways on his feet as he stands to check for the remote over on the bookshelf, and shit, he's way past pleasantly buzzed, apparently, because under the coffee table is pretty much the only place he's going to be looking in a second if he doesn't sit his ass back down. "Shit," Jensen mutters, trying to balance beer, pizza box, ass, couch cushion, avoiding Jared's flailing arms, which takes a lot of his concentration, so he only hears the end-bit of what Jared just said, "these flimsy little panties with, uh, black lace trim. Used to drive me crazy," and fuck, it's because he gets like this when he's drunk, Jensen decides, because he doesn't even think about it, just blurts right out, "this girl made me wear hers, once," and Jared presses pause on the remote. Which he's apparently had all along, the jackass, and why the fuck didn't he say anything when Jensen was stumbling to stay on his feet, looking for the damn thing?

"Oh, yeah?" Jared says, shoving the remote out of the way, and Jensen wishes he could swallow that sentence right back up. Because it's one thing to say, _she was hella stacked, man_, or _wanted me to do her in the ass_, or maybe even _his mouth was fuckin' made to suck dick_, but _she made me wear her panties_? Yeah, that was real smooth, and what was he saying just a minute ago about hanging on to awkward high school sex?

He takes a hurried gulp of his beer, tepidly warm and flat by now, and coughs. Feels his cheeks turning red even through the boozy heat already rolling through his skin, and Jared, the fucker, is looking at him with this sly little glint in his eyes, or maybe there isn't any glint; maybe it's just the TV, reflecting, and Jensen's about to attempt a walk to the kitchen under the pretext of another beer when Jared grins big, all teeth and tongue.

"What, like a little pink g-string? With the floss up your crack, Jen?" He's already laughing on "crack", can't even finish talking, and Jensen feels himself go even redder.

"Not pink, and not a g-string," he mumbles, because not only is Jared making fun, he doesn't even believe him. "White cotton, black trim. Little black bow on the side," and the second he gets that out, he kind of wants the earth to open up and swallow him whole, because Jared was trying to turn it into a joke, and there's no way, no fucking way to turn what he just said into a joke now. Jensen's cheeks are burning, and Jared, the bastard, just cocks his head. "Huh. How'd you let her talk you into that?"

Talk him into it. Fuck, there wasn't any talking him into it; not when he was pushing his fingers under the waistband of Erica Allard's little cotton panties, awkwardly mouthing at her through the thin cloth, wet from his tongue and his breath and her, sharp narrow hips straining against his hands. She called him on Friday, _my mom's gonna be gone all day tomorrow_, and he couldn't even hear the rest of what she said, something about her aunt Julie and shopping. His heart fluttering somewhere in his throat when he knocked on the Allards' front door, black rubber welcome mat and an oversized mailbox, chipping pink and white azaleas hand-painted on the side. Erica opened up, blushing bright, both of them so perfectly aware of why he was there, what they were about to do and stalling, anyway, _hey, hi, come in, do you want a soda? We have orange and root beer, mom left me money for pizza later_ and then they were racing up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. Creaky steps he'd snuck down a few times before that, the stale smell of the cigarettes Erica swiped from her mother's purse. Her bra, candy-red satin, not matching the panties at all – not that it mattered to him one way or the other when he was undoing the little hooks clumsy-careful like maybe they would break right in his hands. Then he was tonguing Erica's pale belly, her tanned thighs, teeth scraping over skin and cotton, the thin reddened lines where the elastic rubbed and chafed at her and he wanted to kiss it better, smooth it out with his mouth, so he kept on licking at her, drawing little patterns on the cloth, and that was when she said it, tight huff of held-in breath. "You like them so much, maybe you should be the one wearing them," and he would've done pretty much anything then to see her like that, hooking her own thumbs under the waistband to pull the panties down her legs.

He can't make himself look at Jared, but he knows Jared's listening, can feel the humid heat radiating off of his body, the couch shifting and groaning as Jared moves closer, and it's real fucked up, because they don't ever talk like this. This isn't their usual brand of drunken banter, the kind that might start with _don't lie, you so got laid_ but always ends with _so's your face_ or _that's what she said_, throw-away ribbing comments they make at each other, ass-slap where an arm-punch would do. This is – he's actually telling this to Jared, stark clear detail he didn't even think he remembered until now, down to the little black polka dots that stretched and swirled over Jensen's legs as Erica helped him put the panties on, the sting of the bands, the slight scratch of the lacy trim, the tug and pull of them, tight on his skin. Erica mouthing him through the panties just like he'd done to her, sucking a little on the head of his dick, fingers rubbing up and down his ass, pushing and pulling the cloth tighter.

"And then what," Jared asks, sudden, hoarse, beer bottle frozen in his hands when Jensen forces himself to look up, knuckles white and tight over the dark brown glass, the peeling red-gold label.

"Then she took 'em off me, and I fucked her," Jensen hears, calm, low voice, like it's not coming out of his own mouth. "And then, uh, a couple days after, turned out she told her girlfriends about it." Kate and Marissa, who laughed about it Tuesday afternoon and all of Wednesday, and then Thursday, Erica said maybe next time he'd look good in her skirt. "We broke up that following Friday."

"But did you want to?" Jared pushes the empty pizza box over, sets down the beer, wipes his palms on his jeans even though there's a stack of napkins sitting right over on the coffee table. "Did you like it?"

"What, the skirt idea? Well, obviously not, man," Jensen mutters, trying to stand up again, and then Jared is on him, crowding him back into the couch, big hot hands ripping at the zipper of his jeans, fumbling at the button, grabbing, pushing, pulling.

"Shit," Jensen protests weakly, "m'drunk, not even gonna be able to get it up, come on, get off me, asshole," but Jared just mouths at him through his boxers, tugs on them, bunching them up in his fingers, letting Jensen feel the soft scratch over his skin, and that's it, his hips snap forward with a mind of their own and Jared chuckles darkly, rubs a wide palm over the head of Jensen's dick, definitely getting hard, dripping wet already staining the material.

When Jared pushes the boxers down his hips, drags his knuckles up the length of Jensen's cock, thumb trailing the vein, Jensen shuts his eyes, lets his head thump back against the couch.

"So hot," Jared growls, jerks him off fast and graceless, cupping his balls with his free hand, and Jensen mewls, helplessly digs his fingers into the micro-suede cushions. Heat's flooding his belly, twisting up his spine, and Jared just keeps talking, breath trailing over Jensen's thigh, "shoulda told me sooner, fuck, wanna see you like that, get you your own pair, see your cock all outlined in them, shit, Jensen, you're gonna let me, right, come on, say yes, say yes," and Jensen blinks, watches Jared's eyes go all cartoon-huge again, eyebrows furling up. "Jen, wanna see you wear 'em for me. Will you?" and there's no way he's able to say no to that, not ever.

"Yeah, yes, whatever you want," he groans, pushing into Jared's slick grip, whining miserably when Jared pulls away.

"Bedroom," Jared says, tugging him up and off of the couch, "come on," and Jensen goes, stumbling, lets Jared drag him to his own bedroom down the hall. Jared babbles some more as he pulls out the nightstand drawer, pawing through Jensen's things just like they're his own, knows exactly where to look for the condoms and lube.

Jensen just flops down on the bed and watches Jared twist his t-shirt up and off, toss his jeans into the corner. His hair's a mess, sticking up every which way, and Jared runs a quick hand through it, pats it down before climbing onto the mattress, bittersweet mouth closing in on Jensen's, beer and salt and heat.

"Look at me," Jared says, kneeling up over him, sharp plasticky smell of lube hitting his nostrils, Jared's fingers glistening, oily wet. Jared's back arching, shoulder hitching back as he works himself open, thick heavy breath hissing through his reddened mouth.

Jensen thinks to the first time they did this, fumbling in the dark, the way Jared had pushed two fingers into Jensen's mouth, told Jensen to suck before bringing them back, and fuck, he knows Jared's always made him stupid, made him open up too wide, made him want it so bad he can hardly think.

"Gonna ride you," Jared whispers, low and dirty, leaning in, presses a rough, biting kiss to Jensen's mouth, and then he's moving, thigh muscles tensing as he straddles Jensen's hips, takes him in hand and works himself down.

Jared's whole body radiates heat, like a furnace, like the goddamn sun, and he's just as hot inside, silky-slick clinging warmth Jensen can barely stand. He bucks up, hard, and reaches out, one hand landing roughly on Jared's waist, the other grabbing thigh. Jared twists his hips with a whimper that just makes Jensen want to grab him tighter, pull him up and just pound into him sharp and fast, see him arch back and bite down on his lip and come just on Jensen's dick, without a hand to get him through.

After, Jensen feels too wrecked to do anything else than just turn his head on the pillow and pull the sheet up over himself before passing out. It's still dark when he wakes up, but he can't see the alarm clock over Jared's shoulder, the sweaty tangle of Jared's arms and legs trapping him against the mattress. His face is perilously close to Jared's armpit, and his tongue feels too heavy and big in his dry, sour mouth, and it's no use trying to get out, because they're in his own damn room already.

Jensen ponders it anyway, cracking his neck with an unsatisfying click, maybe attempting the stairs up to Jared's bedroom, Jared's sheets probably clean and cool and Jared-free, but then again, the dogs are probably up there, and the very idea of stairs makes him feel vaguely nauseous, but he can't stay here, with Jared. Jared who makes him stupid, who loosens his tongue and his hands and – fuck, maybe what he really needs to be doing is looking for an apartment.

Jared wakes up just as Jensen's decided to go back to the couch, heavy hand landing around his wrist.

"Don't. Come on, Jen, stay in bed," he mumbles, yawning, and tugs, trying to pull Jensen back down next to him. Jared's fingers are sticky, but the grip's weak; Jared's still halfway between asleep and awake, bleary-eyed and blinking owlishly. Jensen yanks his hand away and twists to the side, tries to get his leg out from under Jared's hard, humid thigh, but Jared's not letting him go.

"Don't go," Jared says again, clearer this time; a soft snick, and Jensen's the one blinking, rubbing at his face, eyes slowly getting used to the bright light flooding the room – Jared's turned on the bedside lamp, and for fuck's sake, how can the same Jared who hits snooze five times and still manages to sleep through alarm number six, the same Jared who doesn't stop snoring when Sadie drapes herself across his legs or even when Harley keeps nosing at his chin, how can that Jared bolt awake the very second Jensen starts to consider going to sleep elsewhere?

"You want me to piss here? Sorry, man, I ain't into that," he starts, but Jared shakes his head.

"You were gonna move to the couch," Jared says petulantly, gives him that little lost boy look all over again, "I know you. That's the only time you do that weird careful shit, moving your leg an inch every two minutes, thinking I won't notice. When you go for water, or mouthwash, or, you know, whatever – you just get up and don't worry about it."

"Right," Jensen grumbles, sitting up. "Great to hear you're such an expert on my sleeping habits. You know how fucking tired I am of waking up like this? How sick I am of – this, whatever this is, this thing you've been doing ever since you and what's-her-name called it quits? I'm done. I'm done drinking in the middle of the night, and telling you shit you have no business knowing, and I'm done being your goddamn rebound, OK?"

"You – you dumb fucking asshole," Jared sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and he doesn't sound pissed, just sleepy, consonants slurring a little, "you think this is a rebound? You – you know what, I don't have the energy for this shit right now."

The light switch clicks, plunging the room into a thick, solid darkness, making Jensen blink again, disoriented, feeling for the nightstand on his side of the bed before Jared tugs at his shoulder, hard and demanding, pulling him close.

"Jensen, tomorrow, when we get up at a time that's reasonable and not the asscrack of dawn, you can tell me all about how I have no business knowing that some girl back in high school made you wear panties and how bad you want to do it again. With me. And everything else you want to do with me, and how you really don't need to get me drunk to do any of it. And if you want to go underwear shopping after that, we can do that, too, but right now, man, just shut up and go back to sleep."

He yawns wide and loud, and paws at Jensen's side. "Oh, and you definitely owe me breakfast."

It's because he let himself forget that Jared is, well, _Jared_, Jensen thinks with a resigned sigh. He elbows, fidgets and twists until Jared's legs are back under his own sheet where they belong, and gives up trying to push Jared's arm off of his ribcage. _Breakfast_. Like he's not already going to be paying for this come morning.


End file.
